War of the Stars: The Hope of the North--Lord of the RingsStar Wars
by LordofAngmarMB
Summary: An account of the secret war in the North of Middle Earth, the War of the Stars tells of the revival of Angband by the Nazgul Lord Vader, and the coming of age of Luke the Skywalker. Luke along with his mentor, Obwain Keeneyes, and their guards-for-hire, Han and Cheworn, must rescure the captured Princess, Leia of Alderaan, and prevent the conquest of Vader.
1. Chapter 1

The raging thunder of hooves rumbled beneath her cold, shivering frame as arrows slit the air by her head. The agonized screams of her bodyguards fell behind her and were drowned out by the rush of wind in her ears. Her golden horse rode in desperation as the howls of wolves echoed through the snow-clad forest. In a last desperate move, she whispered in the ear of the white falcon that rested on her shoulder and jerked on the reins of her horse as he flew from her. She rode fast away from the falcon as his pale wings lifted him beyond the reach of the orcs that hounded the lady in white. She pulled her horse this way and that, careening between pines and vaulting over rotting logs. Her flight led her clear of the forest and her eyes scanned the vast, snowy plane for any sign of liberation. Her thoughts were interrupted by the scream of her horse as an arrow entered his leg. She was thrown onto the cold earth as he collapsed in a miserable pile. Before she could even think of fleeing, a vicious black warg leapt upon her crying steed, and drove its great teeth into the pour creature's neck, spraying crimson blood into the white snow. She attempted to scurry away, tearing her simple dress as she dove into the brush. She remained silent as her horse was torn apart by the growing pack of wargs, and the harsh voices of orcs filled the air as she drew her knife. As the hunched, twisted beings cleared the forest, she could see that they were unlike the barbaric orcs of Gundabad or of the South. They were clad in pale, ancient armor and they bore the mark of a red circle inscribed by a black diamond. They gnashed and hissed, searching the clearing for her, and digging through the bloody remains of her horse for any items of value. She could faintly hear the brutish Uruk commander yell, "Lord Vader wants her alive! If a single hair on her head is out 'a place, you'll be dealin' with me!"

Her fingers tightened around the handle of her knife as a pair of orcs neared her hiding place. The scrawnier of the two drew his knife and hacked at a nearby bush.

"What did this Princess do to drag us all the way out here?" he snarled.

"I hear she has a map that leads straight to home," his bulkier compatriot replied, "Those northmen have gotten Lord Vader all riled up. He thinks they could find out a way to disable the weapon."

Princess Leia of the Northern Tribesmen of Alderaan held in a gasp as she realized the severity of their words. _They knew about the spies_ , she thought, _They will be preparing for an attack_. Her thoughts were interrupted by the screech of the smaller orc. She was found. She instinctually lunged towards him and drove her knife into his neck. His garbled screams alerted the nearby orcs of their position, and soon boney hands had wrapped around her struggling body. Her pale face was scratched by long, dirty fingernails, and her skin was punctured by the twisted steel of their armor as she was thrown against them. She felt the flash of her knees burst open as she was shoved the ground. She looked up to see a particularly ugly orc standing above her, licking his cracked lips with a devilish gleam in his red eyes. Before he could move towards her, a blade flashed and his head was torn from his shoulders with a torrent of black blood. The commanding Uruk kicked the headless corpse away and sheathed his blade.

"I said not a scratch!"

She felt a coarse rope tighten around her wrists, and the Orcs began to drag her along before they all come to a sudden halt. A deep chill ran through the air moments before an ear-piercing shriek erupted from above the trees. A shadow eclipsed the sun as a rush of wind stung her eyes. The orcs became unsettled and the commander was the only one of the mob who stood fearless before the writhing mass of black scales and leathery wings that filled the sky above the clearing. The horrid creature landed, throwing up a wave of snow, and it let out a hiss as it snapped at the surrounding orcs with its snake-like head. Her eyes were slowly drawn to the beast's rider and a shiver crawled down her spine as he stood. He was cloaked in black, and he was helmed with dark iron. At his belt rested a broadsword not of orc-make but wrought with skill long lost. He moved slowly and with precisely, as if he were holding back a torrent of power within his tall, broad form. He landed in the snow with the harsh clang of metal and he strode towards the commander with silent control over the now submissive crowd. He stared down at the Uruk through his black hood, daring the commander to speak.

"You have failed me Commander"

His voice was like the torrent unleashed by an opened dam, deep and wrathful, and yet, he sounded as if the source of his words was speaking from a great distance behind his veil.

"I'm…I'm sorry m'lord," the Uruk stammered, "they wouldn't surrender and we had to kill 'em. But we did catch the princess for ya'."

"An incomplete success is still failure, and failure will not be tolerated."

A gauntleted hand shot up to the Uruk's neck and he was lifted a foot off the ground. His garbled pleas were soon silenced by the crushing of his throat, and his dying body was dropped into the snow. With slow, agonizing precision, the rider turned his hollow face towards the captive princess. He strode towards her, pain and hate emanating from his silent, composed form. Leia shivered as his cold, sharp fingers planted themselves under her chin. She stared deep into the empty slits where his eyes should have been visible beneath his helm, but all that rested there was an endless void of darkness.

"Where is the map?"

His words seeped from his nonexistent mouth through nonexistent teeth as his grasp around her chin tightened. A harsh torrent of wind threw back his black cloak in waves of darkness surrounded by specks of white snow. Surprising the fear mounting in her chest, Leia managed to reply with the most confidence one could ever expect to be mustered against such terror.

"It is beyond your reach, foul one."

"I did not come here for insults," he hissed was his clawed gauntlets punctured her skin, "I know the one whom you have rested your hopes in: the old man who taught you the ways of elven medicine and guarded you against the monsters in the night. He will not avail you this time. He will die, and all of the North shall bow to the will of Lord Vader!"

With that, his grip shifted to her neck as he lifted her from the ground. She choked as her own weight pulled her down against the steel strength of his outstretched arm. He threw her against the ground before his beast, and he mounted it with a single, fluid motion.

"I want that map found and destroyed!" He growled at his surrounding minions, "Search along the Misty Mountains and through the northern reaches of Wilderland! All who have seen it must die!"

He cracked the reins, and the beast spread its wings and lifted itself into the air, grabbing the princess with its bloodstained talons as it began its assent. She became dizzy as the world beneath her become small and distant, and her last conscious thoughts were of the dreaded fortress that her spies had reported and the only being in all of Middle Earth who could save her and her people. _Help me Obwain, you are my only hope…_


	2. Chapter 2

Luke, son of Lide, looked out over the vast, golden expanse of his uncle's fields. Shining waves of wheat blew in the soft, chill wind, and the sky was alight in the orange glow of the setting sun. He closed his eyes and felt its warmth flood his face. He stood in momentary bliss, forgetting his lonely existence. He forgot about his long dead parents, and he forgot the bones of his clan of rangers that now rested in the murk of the Gladden Fields. He forgot the twisted faces of the orcs that slew his family and took the young boy of five as their hostage. He forgot how he had been saved by an angel with a sword of blue radiance, and how he had been taken in by a farmer and his wife. He had forgotten his title.

His uncle's yells tore Luke from his bliss, and he ran back towards the small cabin where his adoptive aunt and uncle stood waiting. Owen and Beru had been kind to him, now 18 years old, and had raised him as the son they never had. Yes, they worked him to the bone on their crops, and he lived alone with them far away from the nearest settlement, but they had raised him to be kind and strong of heart. Not a day went by when Luke didn't wish for an adventure like the ones his uncle used to tell him about. He wished to go out and save princesses and slay dragons, but, alas, he was a simple farmboy without any ability to do as he wished.

"…get your head out of the clouds and come eat dinner," his uncle shouted from the cabin across the hill.

"I'll be there soon, uncle!" Luke yelled back, looking out into the sunset one last time. _I won't live here forever_ , he thought, _one day I'll find my fortune beyond this farm_. He strode back to the farmhouse, entering the confined space of the three room cabin. His aunt and uncle were already seated before a modest feast of bread and milk, dyed blue with crushed flowers. He chuckled remembering how his aunt insisted that the ground pedals would protect them from gnomes and midges. He joined them at the table, and took a sip of his blue milk while he began to formulate his request.

"You got something to say?" His uncle garbled in between mouthfuls of bread. Luke took a final moment of contemplation before he replied,

"Yes uncle, where were you thinking of taking the harvest this year?"

"Only Midsummer's Eve and already thinking about harvest?" His uncle seemed suspicious, "I was thinking of taking it to Tashi Outpost in Dorwinion. They've been good business before, but if you've got another place in mind I'd be happy to hear it."

"Well…" Luke hesitiated, knowing how ridiculous his request would sound to his uncle, a man who hated traveling a day's ride away from home let alone a month's. "…I was wondering if we could take it down to Gondor this year."

His uncle spat out his drink in surprise and stammered, "Gondor? GONDOR! We'd lose half the crop on the journey alone! Not to mention that we wouldn't make any profit on the venture! The answer is no."

Disappointed, Luke stood and retreated to his room. He collapsed on his straw bed and envisioned the glowing marble cities of Osgiliath and Minas Tirith. His mind's eye created the great jade face of Erebor and the workshops of Dale. His mind drifted back to the cloudy memories of a child long lost to time. He wandered through the green vales of the Anduin and giggled as his father chased him through the tall grass. He fell in the mud and smiled as his mother wiped the dirt from his face. He fled from the monsters that butchered his father and cried as he saw his mother's head roll from her shoulders. He fled through the willows and sobbed as the screeches neared him. He gave up and collapsed. But he would not die that night. A bolt of blue filled the dark forest with azure brilliance and it struck the orcs with radiant power. A whirlwind of light tore the beasts limb from limb, and, within moments, he felt a strong hand take his own. This was the last thing the boy knew before he felt the embrace of his new family. Luke, son of Lide, slipped into the world of sleep.

The sounds of conflict tore Luke from his dreams. He drowsily slid out of his bed and looked out into the morning horizon to see a murder of crows swarming around a single white form. He quickly exited the farmhouse and ran towards the black swarm and shouted at the marauding birds. They flew away and the white bird quickly fell from the sky, clearly exhausted and hurt. Luke caught it, saving it from death, and saw that it was a white falcon with shimmering blue eyes. A scroll was tied to his claw, and a small band around his leg read "Artru."

"Uncle Owen!" He yelled, slipping the scroll into his pocket as he ran to the farmhouse with the bird. Within moments of entering the house, Luke had placed the bird on the table and had grabbed a piece of raw quail his aunt was preparing to cook. He placed the meat before the falcon has he coaxed it to its feet. He stroked its soft feathers as the bird pecked at the meat and his family reentered the room.

"Who is this little one?" his aunt questioned as she sat next to him.

"His band says Artru," he replied, "and I found this on his claw" He revealed the scroll and unwrapped it, spreading it along the table. He had been taught to read by his uncle, and the skill had come in handy during his rare trips to the trading posts. The scroll began with a small paragraph over a detailed map of a land he had not seen before. The note read,

 _To my guardian, my people are in grave danger. A darkness has risen in the North, beyond the notice of anyone but the people of Alderaan. You protected me in my hour of need many years ago, and I call apon you again. Help me Obwain Keeneyes, you are my only hope._

He scanned over the map, and saw a long mountain range mapped out with incredible detail, with several points marked as bases and a large point revealed the location of a city. His eyes were drawn to the uppermost portion of the map, where the mountains seemed to be half finished, and a large red X was scrawled.

"Obwain Keeneyes…" he wondered out loud, "What ever happened to that hermit…Ben Keeneyes was his name if I recall."

"Last I heard, he was run out of the Mos Espa trading post," his Aunt said, dabbing the blood away from the bird's chest, "He moved out into the wastelands further south of here."

He uncle mumbled angrily about some prior disagreement he and the hermit had once harbored. "That old mad man is nothing but trouble. I once caught him sneaking around the fields, doing some ritual. Nothing good comes from magic, let alone an old wizard who tries to turn your corn into a portion of some sort."

The falcon made a pathetic attempt to fly away, and he seemed desperate to continue his journey.

"But…It's always best to let a wizard's things be his own, as I always say. Luke, take the horse and ride down to Arrowpoint Ridge, he's camped out there somewhere."

Excited, Luke jumped up and collected some food items, a knife, and his short bow. The journey there and back would only take two days, and, as a young boy, he had taken a liking to the kindly old man who would bring him trinkets in secret and who had left him many notes in his adolescence regarding crop growing and what animals he could trust. He returned to the table and extended his arm, scooping Artru into his arms and letting him climb up to his shoulder. He smiled at his family and parted with them quickly.

"Be safe!" his aunt yelled after him, "Don't forget to eat on the road! And don't stop at any pubs!"

He rolled his eyes and ignored her protective requests. He mounted his horse and began to trot away.

"Don't stay with that wizard!" his uncle yelled behind him, "And don't…"

His uncle's words were lost behind him as he cracked the reins and began his trek. And so the fate of the North was sealed by the choice of a young man, longing for a life greater than his own.


	3. Chapter 3

Luke rode hard through the flatlands of Wilderland, barely noting the slow shift from brown grass to light sand. The falcon on his shoulder guided him with his subtle movements and shifts in weight. He barely noticed the connection he felt to the bird, it was as if they had been friends since birth, and yet they had just met. The horse kicked up a cloud of dust as they pushed on through the arid plane as the sun slowly arched over them into the west. He thought of the scroll that rested in his pocket, and its mysterious message and the unknown location the map brought to his awareness. He thought over the implications of its contents and why this person would be contacting the old hermit, and if it even was the same Keeneyes.

The sun set and Luke set up a small camp in a small oasis, igniting a fire and rolling a blanket over the soft sand. Artru lept down from his shoulder and glided into the dry bushes that surrounded the now prone _Luke. I wonder what he's like now_ , He thought. It had been nearly ten year since he had seen Ben, and, by the accounts he had heard, he had been through a lot in that time. He had fled from various attempts on his (seemingly) useless life by a group of angry homesteaders, and had lived on the streets of Mos Espa for a time. That was the last Luke had heard of him, and that had been seven years before. Luke stared up at the stars, feeling a soft chill in the air. The lands between the north-east of Wilderland and the Sea of Rhun were very strange, with constant shifts between dry, grassy planes and sandy deserts, and yet the temperature remained relatively cold until a southern pass in the Misty Mountains let the hot air of the west pour into the lower regions of the wasteland. He slowly drifted into sleep as the still air settled around him.

His eyes shot open. He had heard the distant scream in his dreams, but he knew that the sound was not his mind's creation. The hair on his neck stood as he felt the presence of many eyes tacking him. A moment passed by in an eternity and he lay there, torn on what action to take. Both his knife and his bow were still in his saddle bag and that was still resting on his… _MY HORSE!_ His horse was gone, the rope it had been tied to lay flat against the tree, frayed and cut. _Tuskins!_ He began to panic and rolled around to search for Artru. He was also gone. Now desperate, Luke lept to his feet and fled into the sand. He would later realize what a foolhardy move he had made but, at the time, it was the only thing he could think to do. He bolted through the sand in a direction even he did not know, and slipped and tripped in the soft grains but he kept charging forward. Suddenly, a splitting pain burst across his forehead. Then, only darkness…

When his eyes opened again, they were hit by the sharp light of the midday sun. He quickly became aware of the weight he felt on his wrists and ankles, and the burning pain over his left eye. He realized that he was hanging from a pole held by two of the dreaded Tuskin Raiders. He looked up at the one closest to him. He was clad in a simple tan robe, sewn from the rough hair of the desert Mumakil. His head was tightly wrapped in leather and his eyes were covered by metal circlets. Luke had heard tales of the vicious Sand People, of how they had left their cities of the east and lost their minds to the desert. How they would butcher any traveler they could capture and devour them in their secret caves and how they hunted the vicious Krayt Dragons for sport. Luke tried desperately to pull himself free from the pole, but found the Tuskin's foot kicked into his head. Giving up, he looked up into the sky and saw that Artru was circling far above them. If only I could tell him to find help.

They carried him through the sands for what felt like hours until they reached a wall of orange stone, the slopes of a great plateau. They passed through an opening in the rock face and stopped once they reached an open area in the narrow ravine. The Tuskins dropped Luke and forced him against the wall and the group, which he could now see numbered around fifteen, pulled hunks of raw meat from their packs. Luke held back a wave of bile when he realized that they were tearing apart the bloody remains of his horse. They pulled back the leather wrappings from their cracked, leathery lips and began tearing at the raw meat with their unnaturally sharp teeth. _Is this my fate?_ Luke began to work at his ties again, thinking that he was beyond the notice of the Tuskins, but his guards quickly assaulted him and leveled their clubs against his head. The world became misty and his perception was warped by the damage to his skull, but he was conscious enough to know that all movement stopped when a sound echoed through the canyon. It began as a distant rumble, but quickly escalated to a violent roar that seemed to fill the entire chamber. The Tuskins began to hack nervously in their simple, brutish language, and raised their bone clubs in a defensive posture; however, a sudden eruption of sound sent them fleeing. They ran desperately away into the canyon, leaving Luke alone with the approaching monster. The following events were a blur to him. A figure, not in the form of a beast but in the shape of a man, became visible and undid the ties around his hand and ankles. He was aware of being pulled out of the crevice and being lifted onto a horse. The ensuing ride was nothing to him but a blur of yellow and tan and the empty blue sky.

He gasped as a cold, wet cloth splashed across his face. The chill water mixed with the blood oozing from his half-clotted wound. He moaned and rubbed his bruised skull.

"How are you feeling?"

Luke looked up to see a weathered face concealed under a brown hood and a grey beard. His eyes were a shining blue and his eyebrows formed sharp angles that gave him the countenance of some wise bird of prey.

"Ben?"

"It has been a long time, Luke," the old man replied as he poured a salve onto another cloth, "what brings you to my home?"

Luke's head was filled with questions, but he could only reply with, "How…the Sand People?"

"A simple bit of illusion," he replied nonchalantly, "those savages fear the unknown, and know to avoid what they do not understand. I'm glad your falcon led me to you when he did. Any further into their caverns and you would have been as good as dead."

"Artru?"

"Yes, a very unique bird he his, and thankfully one I know to trust." He outstretched his arm and the falcon glided into his new perch. The sight of his gleaming blue eyes reminded Luke of the scroll and, for a moment, he felt a surge of fear when he didn't feel it in his pocket.

"Looking for this?" Ben reveled the scroll, "your bird also brought this to me, but he didn't seem to want me to read it yet." He rested the scroll on a small table next to the straw bed that his patient rested on, and replaced the rag atop his head. For the first time, Luke realized that Ben looked exactly the same as the last time he had seen him. His wrinkles were unchanged and his hands remained thin and nimble, but strong and full of life.

"Why me?"

"What do you mean?"

"Why did you show so much interest in me when I was young? Why me?"

Ben stopped for a moment, contemplating what next to say. "Do you know of the tale of the Skywalker?" Luke shook his head. "Anakin the Skywalker was one of the greatest warriors of the War of Tribulation, the first war of the alliance of the Free Peoples against the Dark Lord Sauron and his armies of Mordor. There was a free nation, the Republic of Tolfalas, and it assembled the greatest warriors of that age, the Knights of Tolfalas, and greatest among them was Anakin, the son of the royal family. He led the White Army in many battles against the Dark Lord and his achievements were so great that it is even said that Sauron himself grew respect for his enemy, something unheard of. I believe that is why Sauron chose to pour all of his willpower into the destruction of Anakin the Skywalker. The agents of the Dark Lord soon discovered Anakin's greatest secret: that he had a lover. Her name was Padme Ancale, an elven lady of Lothlorien, and she was pregnant with his child. Using her as bait, Sauron led Anakin and his armies into a trap. They were all slaughtered by Sauron's chiefest agent, Lord Vader. In the ensuing events, Padme was slain, but not before giving birth to a son. Anakin's closest friend and mentor, Obwain Keeneyes, swore to watch over his legacy, and fulfill the prophesy of the Skywalker: _He who walks along the edge of sky and earth shall bring light in the darkest hour of Middle Earth and so he will bring ruin to the ruiners and bring peace to the peaceful_. And so I am here today watching over that line."

Luke was not sure which of his many burning questions was the most important to ask first.

"Am I…part of that line?"

"Yes, Luke, you are in the line of the Skywalkers."

Luke contemplated this for a moment and he slowly remembered the name being spoken by his father.

"Are you a descendant of Obwain? I saw the name Keeneyes on the scroll and I thought it could have been related to you."

"Well, you are not wrong on that account." He pulled back his hood as Luke realized that he had never seen him without it. Luke watched as the rim of the hood slid around his face and over his… _pointed ears?_

"You're an elf?" Luke blurted out.

"Yes," Ben said, allowing himself a brief smile, "and I am Obwain Keeneyes."

Luke took a moment to reflect on this revelation. The old man, or elf as it seemed, who had been his guardian from afar had been a warrior of old, who had fought in the battle his uncle had told him as if they were myth. How had an elf grown old? He wondered. And how had he grown a beard? And why did he not tell him until now?

"I know you have many questions," Obwain said, reading the young man's confusion, "but they must be answered at a later time. Now we must attend to this scroll, for it seems you have gone through much to bring it to me."

Obwain took the scroll and unraveled it, unhampered by the falcon. His sharp eyes skimmed over it as his countenance grew darker. Luke could tell that the message and the map meant far more to the elf than to he.

"Where is that place?"

Obwain hesitated.

"It is the kingdom of Alderaan, a country of men in the far-north. They are little known outside of their realms, and yet they are a most intelligent and skilled people. They forged lives out of the frozen tundras of Forodwrath, and have charted mountain ranges that had not been seen since the First Age. I have had dealings with their royal family in the past, and I tutored their young princess, Leia Organa. I believe that you would quite like her. This bird, he belongs to her and he was sent to give this to me, but he must have been waylaid."

"Yes, I saved him from a pack of crows. Now that I think of it, they were large. Ravens maybe? Crebrain?"

As he said this, Obwain grew darker and seemed rather worried.

"We must leave soon, your family will need us, I fear."

"What?"

"Don't you remember all of the creatures I taught you to fear? Ravens are not evil, but are often used as spies for those who are evil and can bend them to his will. And judging by this map, there is one now with such power."

Obwain helped Luke to his feet and, remembering something, turned to a chest that rested in the far side of the room. He opened it and shuffled through a large assortment of relics. He eventually pulled out a sheathed sword. The sheath was made of black leather and embroiled in silver. The elf handed it to the young man.

"This was the very blade welded your forefather, Anakin. Fanahat is its name, Breaker of White."

Luke unsheathed the blade. It was forged of a dazzling white steel and it was ever so slightly curved at its tip. The blade was remarkably light and in it was carved details of waves along its ridge.

"Tolfalian steel forged in Eregion, interwoven with Quendite. It glows blue when orcs or the like are near. Eregion was the last of the elven provinces to practice this art, and it was lost altogether after its destruction. You hold a relic, a more elegant weapon from a more civilized age. Never let it go, but never let it control you. We must be off, are you well enough to ride?"

"More than ever," Gripping the blade tightly in his hands, Luke felt a sure of youthful energy flow through his veins. He was led out of the sandstone hut in which he had been taken care of and was taken around to a small stall where two horses waited upon them. One was white and was loaded with a very old looking saddle, while the other was a sandy orange and had only a simple blanket strapped over his back. Luke leapt upon the orange horse and was soon joined by Obwain. They pulled on the reins and began their journey.


	4. Chapter 4

Two days of riding passed, the soft sand slowly faded back into brittle grass. They did not camp that night as Obwain urged them on, fearing the worst.

"Agents of the powers that be are everywhere," he said in one of their few stops, "In the sky, in the water. Birds and beasts and the creatures of the water may be his servants."

"Who's servants?"

"Do you recall that I mentioned Lord Vader, a servant of Sauron, in my account of the Skywalker?" Luke nodded. "Before he was under the sway of the Dark Lord, Vader was my pupal. He was entranced by the power of the Rings, and was corrupted by Sauron. He slew your forefather and was the mastermind behind the destruction of Tolfalas. That event, however, was the catalyst that led Numenor to enter the war. Saruon quickly realized that he could not overcome the might of that nation through military means, and sent his most valued servants to the far reaches of Middle Earth to preserve his legacy while he was in captivity. Vader fled north with his personal legion. I tried to track him down, but he and his forces disappeared into the far north. I have reason to believe that he has reemerged, and the people of Alderaan may be the only hope against him now. I am glad that you were the one to find the map. I believe the encounter has set in motion an awakening."

"What do you mean?"

"The son of the Skywalker, for you are his descendant, and the slayer of the Skywalker: both seem to have arisen in tandem. It is not coincidence that Artru came to you." He stopped for a moment, questioning his next words, "I know you have a family and a life in your homestead, but I must ask you, would you come with me to the north? The blood that flows through your veins is the same that flowed through my old friend's. I could train you in the ways of combat and war and the name Skywalker may once again spread fear into the hearts of orcish-kind."

Luke was silent. Yes, he had always dreamed of an opportunity like this, to go out into the world and fight the forces of evil and now, knowing his heritage, he could avenge his forefather. But…something held him back. Maybe it was the thought of his aunt, slaving away to keep him fed as a child, or maybe it was his uncle's wise counsel that had forged him into the man he was that day.

"I'm sorry Ben…Obwain. If what you say about the peril my family faces is true, than I cannot just leave them alone against whatever may come."

"I understand," the old elf replied with a weary smile, "Let us be off then. I shall ride with you to your home and then we will part ways."

They continued their long ride, letting the sun pass over them as they continued north. Luke still felt conflicted. He truly wished to join Obwain on his quest, but he could not, in good conscience, leave the people who raised him defenseless against the shadows of the North. He thought of fire and smoke but, soon, he realized they were not of his imagination. Far into the horizon, he saw a pillar of smoke rising from burning crops. _No..._ He whipped the reins and sent his horse flying forward. _NO!_ The rushing wind drowned out Obwain's calls and all that filled his heart was rage and desperation. The stench of smoke hit his nostrils and stung his eyes. The brilliance of the golden fields alight with flame merged with the setting sun. The farmhouse slowly came into view, now only a pile of charred logs, and Luke leapt from his horse, drawing his sword. It did not glow, but still, he charged in, blade at the ready. His mind was a hive of hate and passion. He wanted to butcher the creatures that had done this to his home, to smite them and defile their corpses, but all emotions came to a crashing halt when he found them. Two charred bodies lay, twisted with their last agony, upon the ruined doorstep. Their bodies were black, and blood still oozed out from their cracked skin. He collapsed, dropping his sword, and tears poured from his red eyes. _How could I let this happen? I should have never gone! Damn those beasts. DAMN THEM!_

"Do not blame yourself."

Obwain stood behind him, having just arrived. Luke remained on his knees as he swallowed his sobs and clenched his fists.

"I will go with you." He said, rage tinging his restrained voice, "if you swear that I will have vengeance."

"I swear, if it is within my power, you will."

Luke stood, retrieving his sword, and faced him. His soul was alight with rage and sorrow and regret. The handle he clenched felt good there, as if it were promising sweet revenge like a lover's whisper in his ear.

"We ride then?"

"We will ride."

…

He still smelled of burned body. He liked that. He loved the reminder of a successful job. Be it a king or a beggar, he wanted to remember the kill. There was nothing worth looting from the couple's bodies (he had checked before setting the cabin ablaze), but his rusted armor might still retain the aroma of their death for a few more days. He liked that…the age that is. His armor was old. It had so much history. How much blood had run down its green–copper plates? How many lives had ended by his bronze gauntlets? He had forgotten some kills, much to his displeasure, but relics of many past victories embellished his suit. A dwarf's skinned face hung from his belt (the one who carried the ring, he recalled; a kill commissioned by the Dark Lord himself), and an elf's ear hung from his wrist (that belonged to the red-haired huntress from Mirkwood; he had killed her not for a job but for sport). A long grey cloak hung from his shoulders, looted from the corpse of a Galadhrim scout, and from his neck dangled a Tarudain amulet, a treasure he had collected on his journey to the far south. His entire appearance was that of a cobbled together vagabond, all, that is, but his helm. It too was green with age, but it was forged in the style of the Mandolorian warriors of old, his forefathers. It still maintained its power, its symbolism. He was a warrior. He was a bounty hunter. He was a Mandolorian. He was Boba Fett.

The bounty hunter dismounted his black Warg, a reward for a previous kill, and entered the ragged outpost. The orcs, spawn of Gundabad he thought, let him pass and they seemed to get a twisted satisfaction from the smoky aroma emanating from his armor. They liked it differently than he. He saw it as a trophy, as a mark of his skill. They felt their tongues grow wet and their blood became hot with the joy of death. They disgusted him. They fought only for blood or by the will of some force stronger than their own. He was different. He was a warrior. He fought for glory (and pay) and only worked for those he respected. Sauron was on that list and so was Lord Vader. He knew that he was one of the few outside their circles whom they could trust, and their will directed the orcs to also respect him. Boba slowly ascended the spiraling wooden staircase up the cobblestone tower. At the top, he was met by a large, bone-clad Uruk with a lazy eye.

"Ya' here for a bird?" he growled. Boba nodded and the Uruk stomped towards a chattering collection of cages, and tore out a large, black bird. " 'ere you go." Boba took the Crebain and whispered in its ear. He could trust these creatures. They had no will outside of their master's and would never use his information against him. The fact that they were killed after delivering their messages also helped his paranoia. He thought back to when the White Wizard commissioned the execution of a nosey representative from Rohan and, as payment, taught him the ways of the Crebain. He released the bird into the air and traced its movements as it flew out the window and towards the North. _Fly fast,_ he thought, _to Angband with your knowledge._

Boba Fett returned to his Warg and looked out into the East. He had a meeting. Something about Jabba the Hut and a certain smuggler owing him a shipment of spice.


	5. Unfinished Stuff

_Hey guys, I'm sorry but I have moved on to other projects and I have to put this fanfic away. I thought though I would treat you to my notes and an unfinished chapter from Episode 3. Enjoy, and look out for my next work_ _The Tragedy of the Fourth Age_

This record is largely concerned with the last days of the Republic of Tolfalas and the fall of its last prince, Anakin the Skywalker. Little time will be spent on his childhood or the origins of his friendship with the Elf Obwain Keeneyes, but, rather, on his forbidden romance with the Elven Lady Padme and his seduction by the Dark Lord Sauron.

Records of the prince's genealogy were lost in the Ruining of Tolfalas, and all records of the existence of Anakin the Skywalker have been purged from every library in Middle-Earth, most likely by the hands of Vader or his minions. Few remain who know of the Republic of Tolfalas and even the foundations of its great temples and palaces are now nothing but dust. In the year YEAR, The Republic was founded by a noble house of Numeneor whose patriarch had become malcontented with the high family's full control of the state. The family founded a free state, unlike any in Middle-Earth, where the citizens held the right to elect a council that would rule in a just manor for the people. A thriving culture soon blossomed on the rocky island, its growth boistered by trade with Numeneor and its colonies, and the state would soon have the strength to support the elves in their war against the Dark Lord Sauron. This was how Obwain Keeneyes, general and diplomat of the Elves of Eregion, came to the court of the Noble Family. While the senate controlled internal matters, the descendants of the founding family controlled the military and were the figureheads of the Republic. Son of the tenth head of Tolfalas, Anakin was ten years old when Obwain arrived at the court, and, at the insistence of the royal family, he took the young prince under his wing as his apprentice in the ways of war and knowledge.

They fought together for the next fifteen years against Sauron's forces, surviving the destruction of Eregion and assisting in the negotiations to bring the Dwarves of Moria into the War. As he grew in age and skill, Anakin became a legendary warrior, not unlike the warriors of old, and he was gifted an elven blade, forged in ancient Gondolin, and it was named NAME. In his twenty-fifth year, Anakin was appointed as general of the Tolfolian forces, the Pearl Legion. Their armor was formed from the gleaming white metal of their homeland, and their helms were forged in the fashion of the ancient warrior cult of Mandolore. No army of men beyond that of Numeneor were so skilled, and under the leadership of Anakin, they became the scourge of Mordor. Anakin's campaigns led to the destruction of Sauron's fortress of Dol Armoth and he fought in the battle of Minas Tirith. It is said that, in their hour of need, the elven army looked out onto the Pelenor fields and saw a single black silowet across the horizon. And so, Anakin, leading his white-clad forces to save them, earned his moniker: the Skywalker (Vanta-Helle). But even as his strength and renown grew, so did his weakness, and so the seeds of his fall were sown.

While still a young man, Anakin met the fair elven maiden Padme of Lothlorien. Her beauty was so great that is said that the blood of Luthien flowed through her veins, and her dark hair and deep eyes embedded themselves in the mind of whoever looked apon her, and so Anakin the Skywalker lusted for her. In a night of passion, the mortal man and the everlasting lady confessed their undying love, and hid their secret union from their royal families, as it was forbidden. He would leave for war, and she would stay and worry for him until he returned. His fiery spirit would revive her morning soul, and her beauty would reignite his own. And so their romance would live and die in an endless cycle until the fateful night of reckoning. Returning to Lothlorian from the Battle of Dol Guldor, Anakin felt a presence, like his lover's but more. Embracing him, Padme reviled to her lover the secret that would undo all Anakin had built: Padme of Lothlorian was pregnant with his child. Fearful, he returned with her to their chambers, yet he found no comfort in sleep.

His mind was full of nightmares, he saw her face, bloody and twisted, screaming for his help. Blades flashed in fire. Teeth and claws stretched out from the shadows to tear his lover and his child apart. He reached for them, but his body was gone. His yells were but a whisper in the night of agony. Mother and unborn child were devoured by unseen monsters, and above them stood Obwain, eclipsing the ruin of Tolfalas. The vison became like fire, and died inside a ring of gold. He turned, and saw a benevolent man, clad in white and on his finger rested the band of gold.

(CRAWL)

War rages on. Tolfalas, the last safe bastion of the Free People of Middle Earth, is under siege by the dreaded fleet of Mordor, led by the traitorous Count Dooku. The daring abduction of Chancellor Palpatine by the Rhunic General Qymaen jai Sheelal has sent the councel into chaos, and the fleets now battle

Anakin felt the warm ocean breeze caress his unshaven face. He smiled, knowing that the calm s

Mace, along with the other members of the council, rode hard against the oncoming storm sweeping over the black mountains of Mordor. He felt the ashen wind pound against his dark face, unrelenting in its assault on his skin. This day was the one he was born for, the day all of them were born for. That day they would kill Him. He looked to his side and saw the masked face of Plo Koon, a legendary strategist born of Harad, and to his other side he saw Shakalti, the wood-elven maiden who had won countless victories for the Greenwood. They were his friends. His allies. His brother and his sister in combat and in blood. Behind him rode Kiadi Mundi, bladesman of the north and conqueror of Dale, and Evan Peil, dwarven warmaster of Moria. They were his friends. His allies. His brothers in combat and in blood. And behind them rode Anakin. The Skywalker. The outcast. The chancellor's plaything. He was never meant to be here, his lot was to win the battles, not to win the war. Mace respected him for his swordsmanship and for his ruthlessness in combat, but he was unfocused and lacked discipline. Mace wished that Obwain could have been there, that he could have ridden next to the brooding man. He had always seemed to have a strong influence on him, acting as a focus for the raw energy Anakin emanated. There were many Mace wished could have been there: old friends lost to death or betrayal. There was Dooku of course, his friend turned traitor, and Quigen, lost to an agent of the Dark Lord. He thought of the many knights who had been slain in the war, all the faces he would not see again until he walked on the white shores.

 _Today we avenge them. Today we slay the Dark Lord._

They approached the pass of Minas Morgul and, as Anakin had reported, it was unoccupied. The orcs had all poured out of Mordor to lead the assault against Lothlorien, and all they had little to fear if his information continued to be accurate. They rode fast through the Morgul Vale and entered the hellscape of Gorgoroth. Mace could make out the faint outline of Orodruin in the distance, billowing out a pillar of ash and fire.

"Listen here!" Mace shouted to his compatriots, "We have only days before Mordor is refilled with Orcs and we must make it to Barad-Dur before then. We ride to our destiny, to our glorious victory! Let us not think on fear, for, if we fail, we shall dine in the halls of the Valar! To victory!"

All in attendance cheered in unison, all but Anakin who remained silent behind the other knights. Mace, although growing suspicious, spurred his horse into a gallop as his fellowship followed. The next three days were an agonizing experience of endurance. The searing heat emanating from Orodruin baked the cracked earth under the vast cover of the ashen clouds. They had no sleep and yet they were driven on by the singular goal of their eminent victory. Mace could see it all in his mind's eye: the legions surrounding Lothlorian would disband into chaos as the will of their Master suddenly stopped guiding their simple minds, Grievous and his armies would surrender or else be shattered by the liberated Galarhrim, and all evil would dissipate into nothingness as His influence seeped away from the world. Mace vowed to himself that he would insure that this would come to be; that He would die. They passed the slopes of Mt. Doom and slowly, as if it were a needle puncturing their consciousness, Barad-Dur came into view. The tower was high and its pinnacle was black talons. Smoke poured from its moat of liquid fire and dread seeped from its gates. Like a monstrous claw it reached for the heavens, always straining to snag the stars be they not wary.

The knights pushed on, hindered only by the elements. Mace could feel His presence, He who ruled this land of fire and brimstone. He knew they were coming. They were beacons of light on this desolate land, void of life and stinking of death. They rode until their steeds collapsed, and ran until they had reached the gates of the tower. It stood open like the maw of some great beast of the ancient world, unguarded and yet foreboding. Without words, they entered. Its labyrinth of halls and passages slowly led them upwards. Armories and forges passed them by, unoccupied. The tower seemed like some hive that had been forsaken by the scuttling things that called it home, and yet their queen still rested at its center, brooding and planning and readying itself for what may come.

After an eternity of ascension, the fellowship came to the gates of His throneroom. Mace, despite his long journey, suppressed a burst of energy as he turned to his friends. "This war ends now. This monster will die. Today, we will have victory!" Mace kicked open the black-steel doors and drew his broadsword as it erupted into violet brilliance. The hall was vast and at its center sat a throne. It was turned away, facing out towards the open balcony overlooking the desolate land. The sky of Mordor gleamed deep red against the darkness of the throne.

"Show your face, filth!"

"What arrogance must one have to enter one's home and to order them such as you have done." The voice was soft and calming, and yet it seemed to fill the entirety of the room.

"Enough to know that your days of tyranny are over."

The throne began to turn, slowly revealing its occupant. Mace was briefly aghast, expecting a demon or some monstrous creature of the underworld, but the being before him was not twisted or demonic, but fair. He had the visage of an elven prince, and was clad in gleaming black silk. On his finger rested a band of gold, and his face was noble and stern.

"What tyranny?" he said, showing no signs of fear or anger, "I have offered the people of Middle-Earth gifts; gifts that would have preserved all that they hold dear. All I asked of them in return was to let me carry their burdens for them, and yet they denied me and stole what was rightfully mine."

"You claim to have offered gifts freely, and yet you slaughter the innocent when they are taken. I deny you foul one!"

"Foul? Is giving sacred purpose to a million soulless Orcs foul?" He stood from his throne, growing visibly angry, "Is preserving the wonders of the First Age foul? Is cleansing this fair earth of the filthy ranks of men and dwarves foul? I would have made her beautiful as she was at her conception. I was there, I was part of it. I saw Arda as she was meant to be, not was you men have made her. She was beautiful! She was…"

Before He could continue, Mace burst into movement, swinging his blade at His throat. Before he could comprehend the sudden halt of his blade, Mace was thrown back against Plo. He stumbled to his feet and saw, where the fair man had once stood, there was now a grand dark knight. His helm was crowned with spear-heads and in His hand was a mace of black iron. A shadowy cape billowed from His shoulders and His masked, wrathful face stared down at the knights as if they were but insects to Him. An eternal moment passed as they faced Him, not daring to move against the Dark Lord. Mace could feel a drop of sweat roll down his face as the air around him became electric with the building tension. Shakalti moved first, drawing her bow with elven swiftness and firing an arrow at the titan. With inhuman speed, He spun to avoid the projectile and lifted his mace to smite the group. They scattered, narrowly avoiding the blow, and began to strategize in such unison that only a lifetime of training could provide. Plo raised his scimitar and slashed at His knees, providing a distraction as Evan leapt atop the throne and prepared for another jump onto His shoulders. Despite the blade dancing around His legs, He shuffled His armored feet away from His seat, leading Evan to fall and drive his axe into the stone floor. Like a child kicking a ball, He punted the dwarf with his pointed boot, sending his broken body careening across the room. Mace looked away as his friend's body became a scattered mass of flesh, blood, and armor against the wall. _No…_ An arrow clanged against the dark helmet, flying away as He turned back to Plo and Shakalti. Seeing a chance, Mace and Kiadi dashed towards His unguarded back. Again, with unnatural speed, He turned and, drawing it from the aether, drove a lance-length blade into Kiadi's heart. _No!_ Pulling the blade up through the man's chest, He hit Mace with the pommel, nearly knocking him unconscious, and He hissed as an arrow found a chink in His shoulder's armor. He drew Himself in and, with might beyond measure, swung His mace out, propelling His body into a vicious slash. It took a moment before Shakalti reacted to the blade that had passed through her body but, soon enough, her head and shoulders slid cleanly from her torso. _NO!_ Plo, with a roar of anger, leapt into an upward slash, however he was halted by the thrown blade and became pinned through the shoulder against the wall, blood pouring from his wound. Slowly…regally, He approached the man. His arm became red with heat and his illuminated gauntlet wrapped itself around Plo's neck. The man screamed as his skin began to burn, as his cloak caught fire, and his mask began to melt upon his face. _NO!_

It was over. Evan was little more than a pile of flesh splattered against the wall. Kiadi lay dead from his wound. Shakalti's bust-less body still twitched as her once beautiful visage now lay defiled on the cold ground. Plo was a charred corpse hung like a trophy. And Anakin…Anakin stood, unhurt, in the doorway. _Fucking coward…_ Mace closed his eyes, feeling the world around him. He heard the heavy clang of steel boots nearing him. He could smell the burnt flesh and he could taste the blood in the air. This was his moment, the shatter-point of all Middle Earth. In his mind's eye he saw the ruining of Tolfalas, the drowning of Numenor, and the burning of the jungle he had called home in his childhood. All of this death would come to pass if he failed. He existed in that moment, all that existed there was him, his blade, and Him. Mace felt his body move without thought. His blade slid under the falling hammer, finding its mark in His knee. Mace did not hear his battle cry as his body danced around the titan's swings. His opponent was one of the wrathful trees of his home and he skirted under writhing roots and hacked at the iron trunk. He was Mace Windu, knight of Tolfalas. He was a warrior of the Tauredian. He was a master of the Great Jungle. He would be victorious that day. He would save Middle Earth.

Anakin stood aghast as Mace became a whirlwind of violet fire around the dark colossus. The Dark Lord attempted to deflect the blows, but Mace had become something more than mere man. What would happen if Mace succeeded? Anakin knew that his betrayal had sealed his alliance and, if He fell, he would be condemned by the surviving knights. Padme and his child would die, and all that was fair in the world would fade. Mace had driven Him back towards the throne, and He had replaced His hammer with a curved sword in a desperate attempt to match the man's blade-work. He bled black steam from his legs and His chestplate was dented with sword marks. Taking a heavy strike to the stomach, He fell back against His throne. The wound seemed to actually hurt Him, and he shifted back to His fair form. He now seemed small and defenseless against the mighty man towering above Him. He dropped his blade and lifted His hands, creating a wall of fire between himself and the violet blade.

"Anakin!" He cried, desperation tinging his voice, "I am the only one who can save her! Help me!"

Mace ignored the words, beating at the shield with vicious determination.

"I don't fear you!" The flames began to part before the blade. "I name you!" They began to die.

"Help me!"

"I do not fear Sauron!"

The fires died and Mace lifted his blade to smite the Dark Lord.

"NO!" Anakin unleashed Fanahat, driving it through Mace's wrists. The man screamed in pain, and was flung from his position of power. Sauron rose, once again in His mighty armor, and His whole form was radiant from an internal fire. He was wreathed in flame and his iron suit was red with heat.

"You dare speak My name!" Fire flung from His hand, striking Mace across the chest and driving him towards the open terrace. "You dare draw your blade upon Me!" Again, fire flung Mace towards his doom. "You have failed! Your life is forfeit and all you love shall burn for My glory!" His arm was torn from his burnt form as he felt the railing in his back. "You are nothing before the might of Sauron, Lord of the Earth!" A final burst tore against him and he fell. Mace Windu felt the wind on his skin as his limp body fell from the panicle of Barad-Dur. He saw the green trees of his homeland and felt the loving touch of his mother's hand against his face. Then nothing.

Sauron saw the man's body impale itself on one of the many spikes decorating His tower. He smiled beneath his faceplate. Everything had fallen into place. The Knight's Council was shattered, the White Legion waited for their doom, and the Skywalker was in His palm. He looked over to the man He had chosen as His dark herald. Anakin stood motionless, staring blankly at the knight's blade, still clutched by dark hands. His eyes were red with tears and his hands were shaking. _How pathetic._ If He didn't have such respect for his military skill and mindless determination, He would have smited the sniveling mortal then and there. He allowed His will to pour over the throneroom, letting His presence saturate the man in His dark thoughts.

"What have I done?" Anakin whimpered, unable to hide the horror in his voice.

"You did what was necessary, My son," He said resting a still warm gauntlet on the man's heaving shoulder. _Let that sink in, that he's mine now_ , "They would have destroyed your future with Padme." He could feel the confliction within him, His own will conflicting with the one that been molded in him by the knights. Most men would have snapped the moment He spoke, but, then again, that is why He chose this one from the fleeting flocks. "Come, It is time I gave you your gift."

He wrapped his cloak tightly around his armored form. He wasn't cold, at least not on the outside. The liquid fire of Mt. Doom threw sparks at him, but he ignored the fleeting flames as they danced around him. He felt power course up his arm, as if the lava had filled his veins and seeped up to his shoulder. He allowed himself a moment of unwilling ecstasy as his self-hate retreated to the recesses of his mind. _I am Vader_. His mouth wretched into a twisted smile.

A note on the people and destruction of Alderaan:

Long forgotten by many scholars of the northern reams of Middle-Earth, Alderaan was once a powerful, if not inconsequential, country of men situated north and between the Grey Mountains and the Iron Hills. Once a mighty nation that proved an invaluable waypoint for Dwarven traders, most of its strength was lost when its people were assaulted by an eastern plague brought on by traders from Rhun. Their population slowly simmered away until the ruin of their nation was brought back up from its knees by their wise king, Bail Organa. Having reorganized his people to stop the spread of the plague, he sent most of the healthy population further north into the uncharted realms of Forodwraith.

From there, they became a less civilized people, having lost their skills of craftsmanship and woodworking to be replaced with hunting and farming in the frigded permafrost of Forodwraith. And yet, despite their losses, they became great rangers of the snow, and mapped much of the frozen land that had never been seen in that age. They had almost achieved their former glory, but all was in vain, for, shortly after, every single member of that faction vanished. Their homes were left empty, fires still burned in their hearths, but only their clothes marked where their bodies had been. Alderaan was no more.

It was long before their absence was noted by the world at large, and even then it was with a shrug of disinterest for that name meant nothing beyond a few dwarven traders and a small few in Erebor, but the destruction of Alderaan would set in motion a war that would change the fate of the north forever, and would indirectly preserve the sanctity of all free-peoples of Middle Earth.

IDEAS

Mara Jade: Dark Numenoren agent of Sauron. She is tall, pale, and very toned and muscular; a near perfect physical figure due to her lifetime assassin training. Given to Sauron as an infant, she was personally mentored by the dark lord, who had taken a special liking to her, and she was physically trained by his Dark Captains. She conducted several assassinations of Gondorian noblemen and military leaders using seduction to gain their trust and her raw strength to kill them by the mere age of 19. She was 23 years old when she was sent to the far north along with Grand Sorcerer Tarkin to supervise the revival of Angband and the enchanting of the Star of Wrath. She would be vital in the defense of the tower against the invading Northern Alliance. She would escape its destruction and would return to Mordor during the ensuing events. The Dark Lord, too preoccupied with the search for the One Ring to effectively handle the Northern Campaigns and distrustful of Lord Vader, sent Mara to capture Luke the Skywalker, descendant of Anakin the Skywalker, in the hopes of converting him into a new leader for his armies. She would nearly succeed in Jabba's palace, seducing him after the small battle, but was interrupted by the actions of Lord Vader, who captured both and transported them to Mordor, hoping to present his decedent to Sauron himself. She formed a close friendship with Luke during the following weeks, and would play an important role during Luke's escape from Barad-Dur and Mordor itself. She joined him in his return to the north, never to return to the land of shadow and of her birth (also possible mother of Rey).

She captures Luke and brings him to Vader, who, in turn, brings him to Sauron. She forms a friendship and eventual romance with him on the trek to Mordor. She is also at Jabba's palace during the rescue of Han Solo.

Jabba: A fat, disgusting crime lord

Grand Sorcerer Tarkin: A Dark Numenoren Sorcerer who studied the magic/science of wraiths and created the soul weapon of Angband. He would die during the Battle of Angband, killed by the surge of energy from the destruction of the weapon.

Boba Fett: A corrupted elf who became a mercenary and bounty hunter after the Fall of Eregion (an event which he himself caused). He wears oxidized elven armor along with a mi of various pieces that he had collected over his career. He would be hired multiple times by the dark forces to hunt down targets that are too evasive for the unrefined methods of orc mercs. He burned Luke's homestead during his hunt for the map (which would end in failure due to the intervention of Obwain Keeneyes), alerted the Northern Empire of the location of Han Solo and so kick-started the North-Eastern War, and (using the male fell beast he was given as payment for his services) transported the Carbon Forged Solo to the ISTANBUL crime lord Jabba. He was ultimately killed (or so it seemed) in the issuing battle.

wanted to preserve the ones he loved. Sauron knew this, and saw Vader as the key to the Skywalker, my other pupal. Vader was a tactical genius and, once Sauron had gained his allegiance, he organized the destucion of the Pearl Legion of Tolfalas, the proud warriors led by Anakin. Vader lured the Legion into Mordor, and his Orcs slaughtered them all and they took their white armor. Usuing this disguise, Vader led them into Tolfalas and slaughtered everyone on the island." Obwain stopped for a moment, his eyes distant and red. "I was forced to face my old apprentice on the slopes of Mount Doom and I cast him into the fire. I left him, thinking him dead. But, I was fooled. Before his venture, Sauron had gifted him a Ring of Power, and it preserved his soul even as his body burned away. Before the wraith that was my student could pass on, Sauron tied his form to the ring and so he was reborn as a monster of two worlds. He was sent north,


End file.
